The Hyndsyte Saga

JOHN RIDDELL

EDITOR'S NOTH: Having been appropriately saddened by the conclusion of John Galsworthy's epic trilogies of the Forsytes, The Forsyte Saga and A Modern Comedy, the editors of Vanity Fair resolved this month to describe the impressive scene which occurs when such a noble period of English letters draws to its close. In the ensuing chapter, therefore, our staff novelist was persuaded to depict the last moments of John Riddell, the author of an equally famous trilogy entitled The Hyndsyte Saga. Moreover, by a peculiar coincidence, the author has borrowed for his story the very style of Mr. Galsworthy's own Maid in Waiting.

The Dean of English Letters was sinking fast; they had sent for his eighteen novels, his fifty-six stories, and his twenty plays. It was not thought that he would last the season.

He who had been John "Niffles" (for so the name Riddell is pronounced) had lived for sixty-five years, and for thirty-five, having been inspired rather late, had represented Modern Literature upon certain portions of the earth. Now he awaited his passing almost quizzically, judging from the tone in which he said so faintly to his publishers:

"I shall be glad if you will see that my paragraphs are straight and all my commas in place. Forgive these details, but I do not wish to go into the bound volumes ..."

The best wearer of prose among the literati, the most distinguished in words and content, maintaining to the end the social comedy which had procured him the nickname of "satirist", lay quite still, his grey sentences brushed and his style like marble. He had been a writer so long that no one knew now what he thought about death, or indeed about anything, except his books, any innovation in which he had always deprecated with determination. He was clad already in old vellum, a severe binding in the manner of the Classics, whose scent of age was tempered but imperfectly by the bright blurbs on the jacket. About six o'clock they informed him that all the characters of his long-dead earlier novels had arrived.

."Ah! See that they are comfortable. I should like to see Soames."

When an hour later he opened his eyes again, they fell on Soames Hyndsyte seated at the foot of his bed. For some moments he contemplated the full and well-rounded figure with a sort of faint astonishment, as though finding his famous character older than he had expected. Then, with lifted eyebrows and the same just quizzical tone in his faint voice, he said:

"My dear Soames, the world has changed in its judgments since my young days, but there is still a halo around good writing. That, however, is a matter for posterity, and is not my point. Give me a little water."

When he had drunk from the glass held out, he went on more feebly:

"Since poor Thackeray died, I have been somewhat in loco parentis to you all, and the chief repository, I suppose, of such traditions as attach to English letters. I wanted to say to you that this tradition goes back very far and very honourably. A certain inherited sense of style is all that is left to old novelists now; what is sometimes excused to a young writer is not excused to those of mature age and a certain position like my own. I should be sorry to be leaving my public knowing that my style was likely to be taken in vain by Hugh Walpole, or copied about. It is for this reason that I have prepared a Last Will and Testament. Do you act as my Trustee, therefore, and distribute my bequests for what they are worth—very little, I'm afraid. Goodbye, my dear Soames!"

The voice dropped to a whisper. The Dean closed his eyes, and Soames, after standing a minute looking down at the carved marble style, opened the door gently and tiptoed down to the long paneled room where the rest of the characters were waiting.

Old Jolyon Hyndsyte cleared his throat. Gradman pressed Soames' hand. Mrs. Julia went to the window. June took out a tiny handkerchief and pressed her other hand into young Mont's. Fleur alone spoke:

"How does he look, Soames?"

"Like a bound volume of Thackeray lying on a shelf."

"Fine old boy," said Mr. Timothy, softly.

"Ah!" said Soames.

They remained, silently standing and sitting in the compulsory discomfort of a novel which is in the process of becoming a classic. With his back to the light, in Aunt Hester's chair, Soames unfolded that little masterpiece, the Will of the Old Dean, and crossed his legs. And, suddenly, there was a knock on the door:

A voice from the doorway said:

"How de do. This is 'some' house. I think it's bully."

Soames looked up inquiringly.

"Put it there. My name's Hallorsen—stock American character. I was in the old guy's last book. Mighty fine duck. Gee whiz."

Soames took the proffered hand coldly. "As a matter of fact, none of us had very much to do with his last book," he explained, "but since you claim you were a character in it, you may as well listen to his Will with the rest of us."

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"That's bully of you," said Hallorsen breezily. "Darned peachy."

Soames rustled the paper, adjusted his glasses, and began:

" 'This is the last Will and Testament of me, John Riddell, author of The Hyndsyte Saga and other masterpieces of English prose. All of my property I bequeath to my Trustee, Soames Hyndsyte, to convert and hold the same upon the following trusts, namely:—

" 'To give back my theme and novelstructure to Archibald Marshall, from whom I borrowed it many years ago; it being furthermore my desire that Louis Bromfield and others who have borrowed this same theme and novelstructure from me shall be disinherited by me henceforth and forever.' "

Old Jolyon shook his head. "It is a Will!"

" 'Furthermore, I hereby bequeath my stock American character, together with his brusque speech, his slowwitted and blundering manner, and his 1910 slang, to J. B. Priestley, who will use it from now on.' "

Soames paused. Hallorsen was leaning forward, convulsively clutching his ten-gallon Western hat; two tears rolled slowly out of his eyes. "My God . .. not that. .he choked.

" 'Furthermore,' " continued Soames, " 'I request that the grand old tradition of English letters be buried with me.' "

"What about us?" inquired Fleur, after a pause.

"I'm coming to that," said Soames. " 'To the characters in my novels, and to their lineal descendents, I give and bequeath—posterity! ' "

"Posterity—but where is it?" asked Fleur, looking around her in bewilderment at the bare room.

"I am sorry to say," said Soames, putting down the paper gently and gazing at the startled characters with a sad smile, "that since the Old Dean made his will, the fortune which he had accumulated has gradually dwindled away. It has been squandered in unfortunate investments in the theater, in poems and certain short stories, and in his last novel, called Maid in England, and now the truth of the matter is that posterity has dwindled away until—" he paused regretfully—"we are destitute."

"What shall we do?" wailed Fleur. "Whatever shall we do?"

"One moment, please," said a suave and pleasant voice from the doorway; and a youngish man entered, trim and immaculate in appearance, bearing a neat little laurel wreath for the Old Dean, with his card rather prominently attached. "I could not help overhearing, through the keyhole, your last remarks. Perhaps I can be of assistance."

"Who are you?" asked Soames wonderingly.

"My name is Walpole," explained the visitor briskly. "Hugh Walpole. For some years, I have served as a willing apprentice to Old English; and now that he has passed on—" He lowered his eyes respectfully for a moment—"the least that I could hope to do would be to take over his style, his position in English Letters, and his characters intact."

"You mean that we shall go to work for you?" asked Fleur gratefully.

"Precisely," said Walpole suavely. "I shall be glad to give you all positions in my next novels. I can assure you that, so long as I am writing, no character of Old English's shall be neglected."

"How can we ever thank you?" began Fleur.

"Don't mention it," said Walpole graciously. "Please don't mention it."